


bmbfic challenge stories

by psocoptera



Category: Boy Meets Boy (Comic)
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, Early Work, F/F, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-03
Updated: 2002-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psocoptera/pseuds/psocoptera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unrelated stories written for challenges on the bmbfic Yahoo! Group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Now For Something Completely Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place shortly after Rasheequa had to rescue everybody from the crazed anime fans who had tied them up. Tabitha is the daughter of Satan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Femslash written for an "unconventional pairing" challenge. Warnings for sex, power exchange, and mild bondage.
> 
> When I wrote this, I was trying to mimic the way Rasheequa's accent was written in the comic, but if I were writing it today, I would approach her voice a bit differently. Apologies to anyone who might feel appropriated or mocked.

Tabitha is bored.

Allen is away on a job and anyway, he's been so sweet lately, compliant, downright adoring, and what good is that? If she wanted worship she could summon up a dozen imps with a moment's thought. She's tired of tamed pets, she wants to catch something and watch it kick.

***

Rasheequa leans on the buzzer again, pressing her irritation into the button. Harley's forgotten about their meeting. Again. Like she doesn't have better things to do than stew in his lobby? There is reading to do, LSATs to study for, plus did she mention that unlike some people she has a *job*, instead of a sugar daddy?

She sighs, wonders if Harley would be any more responsible without Mik, and figures that no, he'd just be a lot poorer. They are none of the three of them very responsible, and Rasheequa has concluded it goes with the age, the gender, the long-standing friendship, all the things they are that she is not. But she's sick of it, being the den mother, arranging for practices, hunting for gigs. Oh, she loves *playing* with them. And they are cute as heck, Skids in particular is looking almost edible these days, but they're boys, little boys; just last week Harley had mustered the band to play Cops and Robbers. It was some revenge mission thing: whatever. If they wanted to get themselves into trouble they could just get their own selves out of it again. She thinks of the gig at the con, finding them all tied around that pole, facing off with the Otaqueen. It was just so *typical*, her riding in to the rescue while they sat there tied up helpless. Sure, it's fun to be Sheequa, Warrior Princess, but just for once it'd be nice for it to be Someone Else's Job, you know?

She jabs at the buzzer again. And where the heck is Harley? Odds are good he's either a) screwing Mik or b) out with Skids or Cyanide, either way having forgotten that c) he was supposed to be meeting her to talk about her song.

***

Tabitha hears the young woman stabbing the life out of the buzzer before she sees her; when she does she's still a bit taken aback by the waves of irritation she's throwing off. There's anger around her head like a frizz of hair. Tabitha's intrigued, and she can hear Harley moaning next door; he's not going to be answering the door any time soon.

So she *poofs* down and opens the lobby door.

***

This is most definitely not Harley: there's a black-haired woman smiling at her close-mouthed. She's all gothed up like Robert Smith died and left her his wardrobe, and there's something odd about how the lobby light hits her eye.

"I think Harley is busy," she says, and her voice is sibilant on the 's's, surprisingly deep. She could sing jazz with that voice.

Rasheequa realizes she's staring and that the gothette is waiting for a response. "T'anks for tellin' me," she says, "Sorry if I bothered you with da bell."

The woman shakes her head, and two longer strands of hair brush her chin in turn. "Would you like to come up and wait?" she asks; she has a hint of a dimple in her left cheek. "I'm Harley's landlady; I'm Tabitha."

Snatches of memories fly through Rasheequa's head: Harley had said *something* about his landlady, something she really should be able to remember. But she can't. So, instead, "T'anks," she says again, and follows her into the elevator, where she presses the '6' with one long, red nail.

***

The young woman is solider than Tabitha would have expected for a friend of Harley's, solider and deeper behind the eyes. In the small space of the elevator, she can smell her: something unexpectedly floral, and the woman under it.

***

She holds the door for Rasheequa to walk into her apartment, and as she does, backlit by the afternoon sun, Rasheequa realizes the gleam in her eye has nothing to do with the situation of the light fixtures. And that it's red.

Rasheequa blinks a little, inwardly, and starts thinking hard. Is it ifrits with eyes of flame? Should she be watching her language here, avoiding that catastrophic "I wish", or rehearsing a thought-out list of three? Outwardly composed, she settles onto the couch gracefully when Tabitha waves her onto it, but her mind is roiling.

"You know, you still haven't told me your name," Tabitha purrs, and with that Rasheequa is flustered. Rasheequa does not fluster easily. Rasheequa flusters like a slot machine: most of the time she is unmoved, and then there's the one that really gets her. So now Rasheequa jumps, coughs, and drops her handful of papers, which spill out onto the floor and slide apart as if they were frictionless.

Names are power, right? But courtesy is vital. "I'm Rasheequa," she says. "I'm da bassist."

She drops to her knees and starts gathering up papers with shaking hands.

Tabitha stills her, one red-nailed hand on each of hers, her hands strangely hot, and gathers up the papers herself.

"Looks like a song," she says, and Rasheequa, who would be embarrassed if this were a classmate, is relieved that they have something to talk about.

"Yeah," she says, "I'm still working on it."

Tabitha smiles like a jaguar and leans towards Rasheequa; her incisors are mildly pointed.

"I could make it perfect," she tells Rasheequa, "I could make it heard by millions. I could guarantee that all your songs were a success."

Hm, thinks Rasheequa, so that's how it is? Aloud she says merely "Oh really." But her heart beats faster, and whether it's fear or desire, she cannot say.

***

Oh, it's been so long since Tabitha hunted! The girl, offered so much, wanting but wary, smart enough not to disbelieve, not smart enough to disregard. Suddenly she snatches the papers out of Tabitha's hands.

"No," she says, "It's my song, I t'ink I would like it to stay dat way." She pauses, and Tabitha is still, let her - "Beside," she adds, "I don' want to be just a songwriter."

"You wouldn't have to."

"Ooh, you gonna magic me the LSAT too? I don't t'ink so."

Ah, and Tabitha smiles inside. They'll always tell you if you just let them. Now to take it up a notch -

"Not just the LSAT," she says. "You could win every case. Take on any cause you wanted and fight for it and win."

She sees the temptation spread out on her face, watches the lovely eyelashes go wide and flutter, shocked, coveting.

Just like Mummy taught her.

***

Rasheequa feels her mouth go dry. She's just been offered the brass ring and the golden goose; she's sure the silver slippers aren't too far behind if she asks. "My landlady is the daughter of Satan," she remembers Harley saying, remembers now when it's too late, when she can't look away. The red gleam in Tabitha's eyes is hypnotic, entrancing, it's making an answering flame flicker and pulse where no flame ought to be right now.

She jumps to her feet and spins around. "And I suppose there's a limited time offer at da low, low price of my soul?" she says, her back to Tabitha, and she's proud that her voice doesn't shake more than a little.

***

Tabitha slips up to that slim, defiant back. Her lips brush Rasheequa's ear.

***

"Something like that," she says in a low, husky voice, and Rasheequa knows that those red, red lips are millimeters from her earlobe. Tabitha is a hot presence behind her. Rasheequa favors scents like jasmine and sandalwood, but it seems like Tabitha is more of an Eau de Brimstone type, and the acrid scent is suffocating her, she cannot breathe.

Tabitha slides one red-tipped hand down Rasheequa's arm, and her goth skin looks very pale on Rasheequa's own brown, like she should be cold, but she's hot, and Rasheequa starts to feel feverish in response. Tabitha wraps her other arm around Rasheequa's middle and pulls her back against her.

"It's not such a bad thing," she murmurs, "You'll find there are... benefits." And with that her mouth is on Rasheequa's shoulder. Rasheequa knows she should protest, that she's taller, that she could break away, but she feels the strength in that arm. She couldn't. And so she can't move as Tabitha sucks at her neck, strokes her arm in little circles.

***

Her muscles are tensed up, to resist, but she's starting to melt, she can't help herself. Tabitha moves her mouth up her neck, licking. She tastes salty, like sweat. Like fear. Tabitha grins gleefully against her neck. She's relaxing, but her body is still firm. Tabitha can tell that's just the way she is, skin to spirit, and wonders if the firmness goes all the way down to her soul. She tightens her grip a little; it's incredible, having this strong, wild thing in her arms, wondering if she can keep control. There's *nothing* like a new toy, Tabitha thinks.

***

Tabitha's hands are on her belly, her ribcage. Rasheequa shuts her eyes as they reach her breasts and she feels long nails through her thin shirt. Thumbs flick at her nipples and she feels weak in the knees; she would tremble, but she is already trembling. Tabitha's fingers pinch knowingly at her nipples and she sighs and turns her head back towards her.

***

She turns her head back towards Tabitha's, a sudden affectionate gesture, although her hands still hang limply at her sides. Tabitha leans forward and nuzzles the skin under her jaw, and here, here she is soft, delicate even, made to be kissed.

She pulls away.

***

She pulls away.

"I don't like women like dat," she says, half to herself. "And I don't like you like dat at all."

"But you're not sure," Tabitha tells her, already moving in. She puts her hands on Rasheequa's hips and pulls their pelvises together, grinds them together slowly. "I'll tell you what, it's my job to know what people like. I'll let you know if you don't like something I'm doing."

Rasheequa's hips are pressing forward despite herself, like they are no longer looking towards her for instructions. Tabitha smiles, all sharp teeth and blood-red lips, and she shuts her eyes. She is both hopeful and worried that she is about to wake up. Tabitha's mouth is on her collarbone, one of her hands is on her back, below her waist, holding her firmly, and the other is beneath her shirt, squeezing, twisting until it almost hurts, and then more than almost, and then Tabitha whisks her shirt off and her mouth is there to soothe the hurt away.

***

Rasheequa is squirming now, wanting more, and so is Tabitha. She's not getting her due, here, and even if the tithe to hell is standard a tenth part of the action would still be something. She contemplates a direct order, which makes her go all shivery inside, but decides it's not time yet, and instead grabs one of Rasheequa's hands and places it on her shoulder.

***

Rasheequa would have thought a woman would be softer, but Tabitha feels like very thin satin over very sturdy steel. And she's hot, like metal left in the sun. Rasheequa tentatively strokes her throat, plucks at the collar of her shirt. She suddenly realizes she's topless, her breasts hanging freely into Tabitha's hands, and feels very naked.

Tabitha smirks and makes a move toward Rasheequa's shorts, and Rasheequa jerks away, grabbing for Tabitha's hands, and Tabitha pushes her over onto the rug. There's a moment when they are body to body, Tabitha pressed on top of her, and then they are wrestling. It's all been quiet, and suddenly it's like the soundtrack cuts in, they're panting and grunting. Rasheequa is struggling to get away, Tabitha to pin her down, and she bucks and thrashes under Tabitha's weight.

***

She fights, and it's everything Tabitha could ask for. Finally Tabitha is holding her down with a grip on her wrists, and gloats down at her captive, and Rasheequa says "I don't know what you're so smug about. I can't move but I don't t'ink you can either wit'out letting me go," and that's right, so Tabitha summons a couple of imps to tie her hands to the sofa leg.

***

There are a couple of soft pops and something is happening above-behind Rasheequa's head and then Tabitha lets go but her hands are still held over her head and she can't move them. But I'm tied up, she thinks, that's my cue to come save me; but I'm tied up, so I don't have to. She feels dizzy and the floor seems to tilt under her. Tabitha is sitting straddling her legs and is taking the opportunity to remove her shirt; Rasheequa sees the rose tattoo and, madly, wants to see if it smells real, wants to press her nose into the red flower and inhale. Tabitha gets up and fiddles around with something; Rasheequa shuts her eyes.

She feels fingers, lips on her nipples, two strands of hair whisper down her belly. Hands with long nails curl into the waistband of her shorts and tug. She feels her remaining clothes slide down over her feet. The hands and the nails slide down the outside of her thighs and curl around her knees. They start to slide up, parting her legs. Rasheequa tenses her legs and resists and the nails dig into her skin.

"Don't you want me to?" hisses a voice, and Rasheequa hangs there, torn between temptation and embarrassment, until the hands make up her mind and push her thighs apart. She's spread open, exposed, helpless, vulnerable, and she realizes that she's dripping wet and aching. She feels the tickle of hair on her hip and then feels sucking high on her leg; she feels the graze of fangs on her inner thigh. She wants to guide that head *just* a bit over and *just* a bit higher, but she can't, she can only tug on her bonds and twitch her legs against the hands holding them still, until the hands move and she feels them spreading her wide.

It's not like when boys do it; there is less fumbling, less tentative probing. Or maybe it's some Satanic knowledge thing. She is being licked, efficiently, briskly, and then she is not.

She opens her eyes, searching for what has abandoned her. Tabitha is all pale and black and red; her nipples, scorning to let a pastel shade onto her body, are coral. There are leather straps wrapped around her lower body, and Rasheequa is momentarily confused to see the cock hanging low on her belly, swirled all red and black. But she's just *kneeling* there, like Rasheequa could just wait all day?

She couldn't. She's going to come soon even if Tabitha doesn't lay another finger on her. But she wants more, desperately, and opens her legs wider for her encouragingly. Tabitha bends over her, and the red sparks in her eyes dance madly, and she fucks her, pounding lust and greed and desire into her.

Rasheequa starts to say "oh, oh god, oh jesus" when she comes, but Tabitha claps her hand over her mouth.

Tabitha herself comes with little mewling cries.

As they lie there, gasping, Tabitha fumbles with the ties on her wrists and frees her hands, then kisses her. Her mouth is hot, hotter than an oven; Rasheequa thinks of the Lord of the Rings movie Skids had insisted she see, the dark winged-thing that had opened its mouth in a white-hot furnace roar. Her tongue feels mildly scalded and she is surprised that it is not burnt to a cinder.

"So," Tabitha says in her ear, low, triumphant, "Shall I draw up the contract?"

Rasheequa thinks of passionate songs on the radio, of passionate arguments in the courtroom. She feels filled with passion; she has just had, but she covets more, more, more.

Slowly, she shuts her eyes, puts her hand on her heart. Would she be able to feel it if she were missing her soul? She takes a deep breath.

"No."

***

Tabitha can't believe it. Mere minutes ago the girl was practically begging for what she had to offer, and now she was saying no? And when they've always done such good business with lawyers...

"T'ank you for, uh, dis," Rasheequa is continuing, oblivious to Tabitha's shock and growing outrage. "But I like my life okay wit'out any, uh, deals I got to sign in blood."

Tabitha is about to blow her top, about to go full hellfire etc., when suddenly she laughs instead. She hadn't wanted agreeable, after all.

Rasheequa looks at her nervously.

"Oh well," Tabitha says with a mock sigh, "I'll just have to try again to convince you sometime."

***

Rasheequa pulls on her clothes and gathers up her papers and goes next door to meet a sheepish and very stubble-burned Harley. She's feeling a newfound appreciation for responsibility: it means she's in control of her own life.

Still, she thinks, it had been rather... *refreshing*... to be on the other side of the ropes, for a change.

::End::


	2. PSAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Cyanide's dad died.

Cyanide Torres hated standardized tests.

"I hate them too," said Skids sympathetically. "I hate how you can't draw anywhere outside one little oval. And why do you always have to pick one? What if there's more than one answer you think is right?"

Cy smiled at his friend. But Skids didn't get it. Cyanide didn't just *dislike* standardized tests. He didn't just *object* to the principle. Cyanide felt physically ill when he looked at the little columns of bubbles.

His father had died at 10:37 on a Saturday morning.

While Cyanide was taking the PSAT.

He hadn't wanted to go. How could they expect him to think about synonyms and angle theorems with his papa in the hospital? His papa, who had a laugh like a drumroll? His papa, who had worn the same shoes for eight years while buying his son books about dinosaurs and astronomy? His papa, who had gone to the high school and refused to leave until his son was placed in the highest track of algebra classes when some bigot in the office had assumed Cyanide couldn't possibly be college-bound with a Hispanic last name? But it was his papa who had insisted.

"El hospital no es ningún lugar para un hombre joven," his papa told him. "¿Qué vas a hacer, mira mi cabeza?"

Cyanide told himself over and over that his father had been right, that he couldn't have done anything. That it was just irrational to think that the infection couldn't have gotten his papa if he had been "watching his head". And that it had made him happy when Cyanide had agreed to go ahead and take the exam as scheduled.

"La educacion es la cosa mas importante. ¡Esta prueba le consigue el dinero para la universidad, Cyanide!" Even sick, his father had a forceful voice.

So he had agreed to go, to honor the values his father had taught him. He had wanted to write across the top of the exam that THIS PSAT WAS IN HONOR OF GUSTAVO TORRES, so they knew... but it was like Skids said, you couldn't write anywhere outside the bubbles.

He had tried, as the test dragged on, to remember the questions he struggled over - his papa's last words had been to command him to tell him all about it when he got back, so he would know what to work on for the SATs.

He had run from the exam when he finished, almost forgetting about the hospital in the exhilaration of knowing he had gotten almost every question right. Papa would be so proud!

He found out, later, that he had gotten a 1510. He left the score report on the grave.

Cyanide Torres hated standardized tests.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Least likely plot twists, part one: Boy Band quits playing punk and finds their true calling: POLKA!

By this time, everyone knew to be wary when Harley called a band meeting.

"Ok, guys, we have a gig!" he announced triumphantly.

Silence.

"And the bad news?" Cy asked in a tone of long-suffering hopelessness.

"Who- who says there has to be bad news?" stuttered Harley.

The other Boy Band members traded glances and waited.

"Okay," Harley sighed, defeated. "My mom wants us to play for my grandparents' fiftieth wedding anniversary."

"And your grandparents happen to be Operation :Ivy fans?" This was Skids, always optimistic.

"Um... not exactly..."

***

The scary thing was that Skids' uncle actually owned a melodeon and was happy to teach him the basics, and Rasheequa had played trumpet in the high school marching band before she decided it was "too hierarchical".

The *really* scary thing was that they enjoyed it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Least likely plot twists, part two: For no good reason, cast members just start to blow up. Damn spontaneous human combustion.

Harley found Skids in tears.

"He, he wuh- was right heeere, Harley," he blubbered. "We were t-t-talking about relationships, and he, he said, he said he luh-loved me! And then he just... he just... it was so fast, and he was gooooone..." He broke down into wails.

"Oh, Skids," Harley said, gathering the taller boy into his arms and stroking his back soothingly. "I'm sure he'll come back. It'll be okay, honey. I know it took me a long time to accept the thought of you two together, he probably just got scared, it must have been so hard for him after being "the hetero one" for so long, but it'll all work out, sweetie..."

"You- you don't under*stand*," Skids said, pulling back. "He's really *gone*."

A tiny feather of hope unfurled in Harley's chest.

"Skids," he said, trying to pour all of his passion into his voice. "This doesn't mean you have to be alone. I didn't want to come between you and Cy, but, Skids, I've always loved you-"

There was a *poof*, and Harley ignited. Skids watched as he burned down to a pale smear of ash just like Cyanide had.

"Damn," said Skids. "There goes another one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Last line taken from the wonderful Bobs' song "Spontaneous Human Combustion")


End file.
